The Definative Penance
by Lukiss
Summary: It is done. I tried to mix it up a little. Read the whole thing. It gets pretty dark at the end. Keep that in mind. Tell me if you like. R
1. In the begining...

10,  
  
1,  
  
3,  
  
11,  
  
8,  
  
25,  
  
4,  
  
5.  
  
Numbers. The numerical value of my name, to be exact. Jack Hyde. Numbers had become my escape. No, that's not right, they had become more of a barrier, really. They offered protection, they never changed, they never turned their back on you, and they would never try to kill you. But they mostly gave protection. They kept sleep away.  
  
Sleep had become a different kind of evil these days. Nightmares. Isn't that how all those cheap movies begin, nightmares? I never had any monsters, or "falling down a big hole" kinda dreams, always something more sinister.  
  
Penance, takes me back to those days when I went to church, an old dogma about self-inflicted sorrow to pay for past sins. I just called it sleep. Sleep was the bane of my existence. For with sleep came the nightmares, nightmares of what I have done.  
  
There was an out, there's always an out. SPANK, a designer drug made for the rich brats in Shoreside. It began as a safer alternative to Ecstasy, oops. SPANK had it's own little closet of demons, in the form of mind shattering after-effects. Proof lay drooling in the gutters of Portland, where the Staunten and Shoreside cops dropped off junkies. SPANK was a dirty, dirty thing, with documented links to about every known mental disorder… and a few unknown ones too.  
  
It was my forbidden fruit, always on my shoulder, urging me to take one. SPANK let me sleep, nightmare free, but then again, nightmares are the lesser of two evils…  
  
I hadn't slept for three days now. It's funny, after 72 hours of sleep- deprivation, a person is legally insane. That was old news.  
  
Three, what a terrible number, three suns and three moons. When moon #3 finally arose, I was forced to pay. They say that when a person doesn't sleep for days on end, his tolerance for deprivation goes up. Lucky bastard. Three was one of the few constants in my life. Two nights of fighting sleep, counting, thinking, singing for god's sake! Only to lose on the third night. I couldn't escape it. It had begun.  
  
I was in the same bed, the same shoddy apartment. Above an old ceiling fan spun. The fan was a metronome, scratching a loose screw on every rotation. It was amazing how an old fan could be so precise. It spun perfectly, flying weightlessly through the atmosphere of my humble home, the tattered brown cloth wrapped around the blades fluttering against the air. But then the screw came. In one moment, the blade's perfect flight was ruined, the screw cutting into the blade, slowly ripping it apart. I knew one day the blade would fly off its anchor, sending it spinning into oblivion.  
  
But that day wasn't today. Tonight actually. Things were entirely different back then, but so much the same. Sleep was still the problem, it was the chalice full of warm relief always out of reach. Every night I sat in my hovel, praying to a God I never visited, for morpheus' brew. It never came. Maybe that was for the better. The night had quickly become a dangerous place for people like me. One would think that the night would be the safest place for a thug like me. One would be wrong.  
  
Things were getting messy lately, some masked vigilante was seeing to that. He was tearing into the city's underbelly like it was today's catch. He was ruthless, a machine of blind justice. He walked in, took care of business, walked out. Never said a word. Even worse, he was good. After two months, no one had touched him. No bullet had pierced his flesh, no explosion had stunned him. Not even the cops, fat with mob money and dripping corruption, could track him down.  
  
I felt personally afraid though, more than just some regular thug striding down the street. All the victims, I mean all of them, had been at least acquaintances of mine. Most were just crooks I'd met during "business," most of them.  
  
Tony Caprini was shot and killed a week ago. Tony and I came up together. We were the Trenton Boys. Two young guys that saw GoodFellas, and had a dream. A dream of being wiseguys, a dream of not having to work every day of our lives only to be lower class nobodies. We started a gang, real small time stuff. Jacking cars, a little prostitution, a little extortion, nothing big. Until one day. We were tipped off that there was an armored car from out of town coming in. The thing was full of hot stuff, I'm talking military grade weapons. We knew that no other gang had the slightest inkling about it, so we hit it. Tony and I did it personally. We both took a bullet in the right shoulder to do it. Those scars became our bond. After that, we were big time. Tony sold the weapons to the Leon family and he was as good as made. I didn't have the brains like Tony, he was the frontman, I was the muscle. I let him handle business. He took care of me, got me jobs, made sure no one messed with me. Life was good.  
  
But he's dead. I still don't understand how it happened, Tony lived in a fortress. His pad in Shoreside where he died was tailor–made to prevent assassinations. His front door rivaled most bank vaults. Just to get past the gate required a security code. It didn't add up. The police report said that the door was unlocked. Tony let him in. Why would Tony let that bastard in?  
  
That was a moot point now, Tony was dead, he'd been so for a week. I even remember the night, my insomnia was acting up like it never had before. That brings me to the real problem.  
  
Three months ago, I found a good sleeping pill. When the local pharmacy can't prescribe anything good, turn to your friendly SPANK dealer. Actually it happened on accident.  
  
I tried SPANK way before then. It was strange, I never felt any craze in my mind, never got the twitch like everyone else. While most people were bouncing off the walls, I was cooled out, relaxing. I never really got hooked either. It was fun, kinda, but not so much that I couldn't stop.  
  
But then three months ago, I couldn't sleep. It was three in the morning, and again, the sandman was a no show. I rolled over and was greeted by an uncomfortable pang in my right side. I had a left over hit of SPANK in my pocket from a trip I was on a few weeks ago. I popped it. Sleep came. Problem solved.  
  
That's what I thought. The next day I woke up, tired and sore. But I sure as hell felt better than when I stay up all night watching reruns of MASH. That's how my addiction really started. Not because my body wanted SPANK, because my body demanded sleep.  
  
That's how I got started. Since I've been able to recount the whole story, something must be wrong. I took a hit an hour ago. I've never had to wait this long before. I'm out. Damn. Hmmm, maybe Kim could get me some.  
  
Kim was kinda my girl. When I say kinda I mean, we go out and all, but she's also a whore, so really she's everyone's girl. That didn't matter. She does show honest affection towards me. The fact that her sister was one of Staunten's biggest SPANK dealers only sweetened the deal.  
  
Lets see, it's one o clock, Kim's with clients now. Hmmm…. Her sister Lee is at the Kenji Casino right about now, I could hit her up for some.  
  
Kenji was a rough guy. He was a Yakuza boss and let everyone know it. His little body seemed too sizes too small for all his anger. That bastard would cut off peoples hands, or worse, if they didn't do the job. He was all about honor, and if you dishonored him, you might all well get on the train to marble city.  
  
Off to Kenji's it is then. I would have to be careful about how I talked to Lee. She deals her wares without Kenji's approval, using the casino job as a front. She worked the cash booth, lacing SPANK into certain bills. When a customer wanted SPANK, they would give her their chips in a special way, three reds; one at a time, three whites; one at a time, and three blues; one at a time. So far the system was sound, she wasn't dead after all.  
  
When I pulled up to the casino, things seemed wrong. Like there were too many cars parked up the street. All were nondescript, in a sharp contrast the red and white flares of the Yakuza stingers that populated the casino parking lot. The air was too still, I wanted to get the stuff, and get the hell out of there. 


	2. Viva las Vegas...

1:25 AM  
  
Carl Slater sat in the off-brown van in silence. The night was still, maybe it wasn't, maybe nights always feel still before a raid. It didn't matter. Carl was SWAT, the real men, and tonight was his first raid. Two pitbulls fought over his small intestines as he sat in silence, waiting… waiting. Carl thought back, letting his mind stray from his mission.  
  
Carl wasn't a supercop kind of guy. He never was, he was in that puke- brown van for only one person. His brother, SWAT team leader Lenny Slater. Lenny was a SWAT poster boy. At the age of twelve, he knew that he would enforce the law. Carl could remember Lenny talking about the crime in Wichita Gardens, "You wanna know why this is a ghetto Carl? You wanna know? Because of these damn cops. We need some nigga cops Carl, you know why? Because all these white cops are too afraid of catching a race case to do their damn jobs."  
  
But Lenny was a true patriot, instead of joining the Jacks or the Nines, Lenny became a cop. Lenny sought change from the inside.  
  
Carl looked over at Lenny, his face illuminated by the blue "stealth light" in the van. Lenny was all Carl wanted to be. He looked like a cop you'd see in a movie. His deep black skin turned slightly blue in the lights.  
  
Lenny smiled, "You got my back, right?"  
  
"Yeah, gotta pay you back sometime," Carl replied.  
  
Lenny was the stereotypical big brother, the kind that every little brother wishes to have. Life in the Gardens was easy for Carl, as easy as life in the Gardens could ever be. Once Lenny's name was mentioned, people knew that Carl wasn't to be messed with. Even the gangs respected Lenny. They knew one-on-one, he could take any of them, even the bruisers.  
  
So Carl had devoted his career to Lenny, he followed him into the SWAT unit, trying to prove that he was as good as big brother.  
  
"Tha hell?"  
  
Carl's trip down memory lane was interrupted by Lenny's concerned voice. All eight guys in the van turned to catch a glimpse of what surprised Lenny. A masked man ran into the casino, gun in hand.  
  
"Let's rock and roll," Lenny exclaimed.  
  
1:15AM  
  
As I many times as I'd walked into the casino, I still had to stop to take in the sights. The main gambling hall was a large rectangular room, a small set of stairs leading down to the main floor. The walls were lined with a fake plastic oak siding, it yearned to be a true Vegas style casino, but fell and landed in Atlantic City.  
  
The first sounds heard were the screams of the one armed bandits, rows and rows of slots acting as the spearhead into a gambler's heart. Next came the craps and roulette. Finally, far in the back lay the poker tables. Directly to the right of the small staircase was the cash booth, manned by none other than Lee.  
  
I flashed a smile at her, but decided to wait until I actually had some chips before I visited her. I wouldn't be the one that got her busted.  
  
As I descended the staircase, I noticed increased security around the door. Flanking the door, on the long sides of the rectangle, were two large security mirrors, designed to make people walking in feel overwhelmed. I didn't think it worked, but then again, I wasn't the head of security. Also, two security cameras looked onto the entrance, one focused on the cash booth, the other over the booth, looking onto the door.  
  
Kenji had upped the security after a couple of bandits, brothers I think, tried to rob the place, they almost made it, but were gunned down in a truly bloody manner. Well, "You play, you pay," I thought. It's first rule of being a thug, forget it, and you're already three feet under.  
  
My mind wandered. Eyes on the prize, Jack. I headed to the back in the direction of the poker tables. I didn't gamble very well, but I liked poker and I had to at least make it seem like I wasn't here for the SPANK.  
  
Kenji ran a different kind of poker, he let you gamble amongst yourselves all you want, but took you on the liqueur, which was grossly overcharged. Good thing I didn't drink. I walked around the poker area until I saw a table that drew me to it, that didn't take long at all.  
  
I sat down at the old table across from two men, their backs against the wall. They both wore cowboy hats, I felt right out of a western movie. The one on the left had sunken eyes and seemed to wear a permanent sneer, his every feature seemed to exude darkness. His partner stood in stark contrast, with a shock of blond hair trying vainly to escape from its cowboy hat prison, and a complexion that would make an islander green.  
  
One feature clearly united the two however, each of them had a long scar running diagonally across their face, the Dark one's running from the left, the Light one's running from the right. I made this inspection without ever making eye contact, probably out of fear. All of a sudden I doubted my choice in tables.  
  
I quickly decided to play only one hand and get my SPANK. An eerie silence descended onto our table as the Dark one dealt the cards. Not a word escaped a pair of lips while we each anted up. I wasn't about to open my mouth, these guys already creeped me out enough.  
  
The game was four-card stud. Each man getting one hand, no drawing, just lady luck at her best. My first card slowly spun through the air and landed in front of me. I hesitated before I picked it up: the six of spades. I looked up as my second card followed suit: the six of club. Hell, I managed to make out with a pair, I might just make some cash here. Then my third card hit the green velvet: the six of diamonds. The mark of the beast was upon me. My last card landed: a one-eyed jack, the card that say only half of the game. As much as I just wanted to fold and leave, I was taught to bet my life on a three of a kind, no matter what three it might be. I raised the pot. My companions followed suit. Next, Dark did the same. I put in my cash, knowing I could win this. Finally, Light raised too. I again stayed in. So back to me it came.  
  
"Call," I said.  
  
Light went first: two aces, two eights.  
  
Dark followed: two aces, two eights.  
  
This was not right, and my hand wasn't about to change that.  
  
I laid down my cards: three sixes and a one-eyed jack.  
  
The men said nothing, merely stared at my cards. I reached in to take the pot. Still they said nothing. I took the chips and turned, starting to walk away.  
  
Then the silence was broken. Nearly simultaneously, both Dark and Light whispered something barely audible.  
  
"Something wicked this way comes."  
  
I turned back to them, finally allowing my eyes to meet theirs. I don't know if it was SPANK induced or not, but their eyes, I mean every last bit of them were black as the night. I turned and half walked, half ran away, trying to get to the cash booth as soon as possible.  
  
I approached Lee as nonchalantly as possible, turning my back to her and slowly dropping my chips on the counter. Three reds, one at a time; three whites, one at a time; and finally three blues, one at a time. No SPANK laced money was slid my way. No money at all was slipped my way. I turned to face her, but before I could speak, a masked man burst through the door. 


	3. Doing Dante proud....

I turned slowly, facing the masked man. It seemed to take eons for my body to finally manage to square up with this mysterious intruder. Time became the loser in its footrace with snails.  
  
I looked at the man, an enigma wrapped in a Greek labyrinth. Under his black ski mask, the beginnings of a smile began to form. He was everything and nothing at the same time. He appeared as if an old friend in a stranger's body. Instantly recognizable, yet endlessly impossible to identify.  
  
He drew first. His 9mm slowly rose to my level. Boom. The bullet exploded from its chamber like a prisoner with a pardon. The lead vessel of death spun perfectly, its trajectory sending it straight at my right shoulder. I watched it come, waiting for the inevitable meeting between it and my soft flesh. It never came, rather, it whizzed under my armpit, slicing through my jacket on its way to Lee.  
  
Bullet wounds are always a terrible thing. Lee's was no exception. The bullet cut right into her neck, its grooved sides tearing right through and out the other side. She erupted into a fountain of blood and pain, letting out a soft whimper as she fell. Looks like Kenji would never catch her.  
  
I then raised my piece, mirroring my enemy's actions. In tandem, we each let two shots fly, each missing each other wide. By this time, I realized that there was no point in tempting fate any longer, so I jumped behind a nearby slot machine, hoping to pop up and catch my assailant off guard. He seemed to have the same idea, but rather than jumping for cover, he leaped off the stairs, past me, and into the nearby kitchen. I was on him before the swinging doors could close, diving in after him, ready to blow him off the map. But he wasn't there.  
  
I looked in all directions, checking under counters and in fridges, but the masked intruder was not to be found. Bewildered, I turned back out to the casino floor. At that point, I was greeted by a mob of SWAT team members.  
  
The night had gone to hell, and these guys were ready to blow it back again. A swarm of bullets was sent into my direction like angry hornets defending their nest. The bullets pinged around me, luck was a lady tonight, and I seemed to have all the right moves. I shot back, sending two rounds at a big black cop. In an eerily similar fashion to Lee's death, the bullets found their way to the man's neck, both shots hit the right side of his head's stem, causing his cranium to fall unnaturally to his right, hanging on by thin tendons. Cue the crazy black guy. Another black cop ran to his fallen comrade, watching him fall, within seconds, he too was emptying his magazine into my airspace. This was too much, I decided to cut my losses, and bolted through the still empty kitchen and out the back door.  
  
Night air is overrated, especially after my brief stay in that casino of hell. Once a body gets used to smoke and the smell of blood, fresh air seems like an overdose of Mr. Clean. I didn't stop to enjoy the beautiful night, instead I ran as fast as possible to closest car. The blue Banshee was my ticket out of this hell, it sat there in the deserted parking lot, a path out of the maelstrom. I wasted no time diving into the convertible, using my well-tempered hot-wiring abilities to fire it up in seconds. Not a moment too soon either, as that black cop busted out of the kitchen's back door, letting his gun do the talking. I floored it, feeling the power of the American V10 in front of me. Time to roll, I thought as I booked it out of there amid a hail of bullets. I turned back in time to catch the cop fall to his knees in pure anger and sorrow. I'd never heard a man scream with such fury before that night. 


	4. Kim

Boom! Boom! Boom! Inside the American-built engine, gasoline exploded thousands of times in seconds. Lots of things were exploding like that lately. The night air was frigid, a slap in the face, reminding me of what just happened. The long night, the desire for spank, the card table, the masked man, and that crazy SWAT cop. I was in trouble. I needed a safe house, it wouldn't be long before the cops put out an APB on me, and I didn't want to be on the street with those vengeful bastards.  
  
I turned onto the Callahan Bridge, making a beeline for the Red Light District. Kim would help me. By now, her Yakuza buddies must have called her, told her about that shit crazy guy from the casino, told her about Lee… It didn't matter, she would help me, she's always helped me when I was in it.  
  
Lee was hot, no doubt about it. She was your classic hourglass shape, big on top, big on bottom, no wonder she was a hooker. She was in theory Japanese, but couldn't speak a word of it to save her life. She was more American than corruption, combining Asian sensuality with American buxom. Hot as hell.  
  
I pulled up to her little apartment, it was shitty, but than again, she rarely spent the night there. I figured she'd be there by now, once she got the page about Lee, I doubt any client would keep her. I walked up two flights of stairs and headed to room 665, who numbers the second floor with 600 I don't know. I could hear Kim sobbing before I even knocked, "Kim?"  
  
"Who is it?" She replied.  
  
"Me, Jack."  
  
"What? Bastard, you're goddamn kidding, who the fuck is it?"  
  
"It's me, I heard about Lee, I'm sorry."  
  
"You're fucking sorry? It is you! You fucking bastard!"  
  
"Look, I'm sorry about what happened, open the door sweetie."  
  
"Fuckin' I'll open your door bastard! You did it, you sack of shit, you fucking killed her!"  
  
"Baby, take it down a notch okay? I almost died today too, what happened was terrible, but I didn't do shit."  
  
"You didn't do shit, huh? I got some shit for you to do!"  
  
I heard the distinct chik-chik of a twelve-gauge killer.  
  
"Be cool, honey." I pleaded.  
  
Boom! A shot ripped through the door, missing me by a foot.  
  
"Fuck! What are you thinking!?!"  
  
"I'm thinking I should aim a little more to the right, you fucker!"  
  
Time to get out of here.  
  
"Look, we'll talk later baby, I'll call you."  
  
"I don't accept collect calls from Hell, fucker!"  
  
Exeunt Jack. I dove to the left as the next shot tore through the flimsy wood of the door. This bitch was crazy. I took advantage of Kim's lack of ability to open a door while she's crying to run down the stairs and outside.  
  
Back in the cold, I looked up at the apartments and yelled, "I'll call you!"  
  
Kim appeared at the hall window, looking as if she was reasonable, looking ready to talk. Her eyes were red, sore and dry from her tears. She looked at me and whimpered, struggling to find the words to say.  
  
"Baby?" I called.  
  
She smiled, then blew her brains out. 


	5. The Return...

Kim's lifeless body crumpled out of view, the window frame too small to show her any further. Truly, the worst night of my life.  
  
What did she mean? Why did she think I killed her sister? I mean, maybe by not taking the bullet myself she died, but how could she blame me for that? That didn't matter anymore, one more bodybag to fill now. I really liked her too, maybe loved her...  
  
Answers were needed. Something still eluded me. Something... The casino held my answers, the casino. There were two cameras in the entryway. Those cameras held the key. I must have missed something, some clue about what had really happened only hours earlier. The film recorded onto those cameras would shed the light of truth onto the night. I knew it.  
  
I turned away from the apartments, they held nothing more for me. I headed back to the Banshee. Kinda weird that it hadn't got jacked... As I opened the driver's side door, my blood froze.  
  
Sitting on the driver's seat was a mask. A black mask. Fuck. He was here. He followed me. I spun around, searching every section of the empty street, looking for someone, looking for him. The offending lights of the neon signs were my only response. Not a soul traversed the mean streets, only empty gray sidewalks reflecting the sign's light, giving it a gritty edge that only cement can. It was way too cold for even the hookers, they had all already found a warm bed to sleep in. My search was rewarded with only a black cat darting across the street. Shit.  
  
I needed answers I thought as I sped towards the casino. I knew the cops wouldn't be there anymore. They hardly cared for evidence these days, they had seen my face, I was as good as guilty. I did not want to go back to that gambling hall of evil, bad stuff had happened there, and my troubled stomach told me that the night was still young. Yet as my very bowls cried out to pull the e-brake and go home, my brain pushed onward, demanding answers.  
  
I pulled into the same back parking lot that I had fled from earlier in the night. The casino was predictably empty, no sign of any cops around, they were all looking for me. I pulled into a spot, disengaging the engine. I began my search for the truth, a search that would explain everything. 


	6. Answers...

I pulled into the casino parking lot. Once filled with police cars and paramedics, the gray asphalt was starkly empty. Yellow police tape and white chalk outlines were the decorations for the devil's Mardi Gras. More chalk outlines? Apparently things were just getting heated up when I jetted. The police were nowhere to be seen. They had enough evidence now, the blatant corruption in Liberty's judicial system ensured a conviction for anyone within a block of the shootout. Hell, they probably wouldn't even bother trying me, shoot on site. The fuzz was all over the town now, hunting. Hunting me. Kinda odd they missed me on the way over…  
  
I cautiously opened the door of my tired Banshee. It had served me well tonight. I usually don't give a second thought to the cars I use, they're all disposable to me. They serve only as a means of transportation. They can never be valued like a human, well, at least not like me.  
  
Tonight I did stop though, I stopped and looked at that poor Banshee. It's deep blue paint still shown with pride, it knew it was a fine vehicle. Yet, somehow, it also knew that it was done. It knew that, despite its fine paintjob, its insides were crippled. The long, hard driving of the night had been rough on the big American engine, now its once well tuned chambers were dirty, thin with use. The car had been through hell.  
  
I turned away from the machine, the time had come to focus on the objective at hand. What that objective was, I have yet to figure out, but I knew that there could be only one answer: the casino. I pushed open the back door leading to the kitchen. The smell of blood and gunpowder hit me like a Trashmaster. I felt it more than smelt it really, it was all over me, enveloping my skin. I proceeded into the kitchen, the pots and pans hanging from their racks seemed to sway, as if a wind blew through, a wind of death.  
  
I left the kitchen, moving back into the infamous gambling hall. To my left stood the cash booth. The police had managed to remove Lee's body from the steel cage, but a splash of blood still hung on the wall behind it. The drying red blood looked like a masterpiece from some twisted new age artist. Little did the authorities know that they would have to clean up one more young Japanese girl before the night was over.  
  
This is where it happened, I realized. I was standing right were I was when the masked man entered. I could imagine him running in, taking his shots at me, hitting Lee, diving out, diving into oblivion.  
  
But this wasn't the answer. This wasn't what I needed. This was the past. I needed answers for the future. Those answers lay somewhere else. The security booth. That was the real truth, for it is there that the truth must lie. I walked to the back of the hall, weaving between cold slot machines, heading for the stairs that would take me to the security booth.  
  
The stairs creaked under my weight, I held my hand to the banister. Slowly working my way up. Somehow, I knew that no one was up there, but it wasn't man that I feared now. At the top of the stairs was a sign. In big red letters, the word, "Security" and an arrow hung over the landing. It hung like a guillotine. I followed the fateful arrow, arriving at a large steel door. It sat ajar. I carefully entered.  
  
A single monitor glowed in the gray darkness. Its image was from the camera over the cash booth, looking at the door. The images seemed to spring to life, knowing just where to start. I watched as the masked man ran into the room. Without sound, I saw him raise his gun and fire, then run away. There seemed to be nothing there. No great hint, no great clue. Nothing. Desperately, I watched it. Again he raised his pistol, his wicked form reflecting in the security mirror, and again he shot. Again. Again… Then it hit me. Nothing. There should have been something. I shot three shots at the man, missing him. Those shots should have hit the mirror. There should have been glass, shattering, something.  
  
Just then, the next monitor flipped on. It was the view of the cash booth. I sat patiently watching it. This was it. Nothing was happening. Lee sat there, handing out cash as necessary, making sure the patrons had plenty of green to blow. This was useless, I needed to know what happened! I sat, waiting for it to reach the part with the answers, afraid to fast forward, lest I miss a crucial clue. Then Lee's neck exploded in a shower of blood. Oh shit. I rewound the tape. Again, her happy face was contorted into a twisted scream as her neck and the bullet met. Fuck, I wasn't there.  
  
"Ain't that just a fuckin kick in the head?" A deep voice said calmly behind me. "Oh, wait, my bad, this is."  
  
I felt the large boot connect with my head as I began to fade to black. But black didn't come. Dazed, yes, unconscious, no. I felt his big hands grab mine, handcuffing them together. I was thoroughly stuck in the chair. His big hands enveloped my face as he spun duct tape around my mouth, sealing it shut. He spun me around, it was the black SWAT cop from the casino.  
  
"How are you fuckin doing?" He asked menacingly. "Police hand book, page 1: they always come back. Ain't that the fuckin truth?"  
  
The cop had a crazy gleam in his eye. The death of that other cop was too much for him, I could tell. Reason had left this guy a long time ago.  
  
"Did you know who he was?" He questioned. "Did you know? He was my brother. He was a hero. He was my hero. And you took him. You shot him. He went out to save this fucking planet. He wanted to save little kids ya know? I bet you didn't know that. He didn't join up to deal with bastards like you, he just wanted to help the little kids. He wanted to help the ones that didn't have nobody. But he's dead. He's dead because you decided you wanted to hold up a casino. He's dead because you needed some drugs. Isn't that why he's dead? I thought you wanted to be something good in this world. I didn't think you wanted to be a punk, did you, did you want to be a thug? What did Tony say when he died? Do you remember? Did he beg? How about Kim? How bout her? Did she cry? I bet she did. She looked like a crier.  
  
Blood began to pour from his mouth as a bullet wound opened up in his forehead.  
  
"Or how about me? What did I say? Did I yell out for Lenny? Did I pray to god? I bet I did. Ha, ha. You think this is the worst-case scenario? Ha! You know better than that, don't you killer? You know. Ha! A dream. You know. It's coming back now, isn't it? Now you remember. This is your paradise! You wish this were it, don't you? You wish you could turn into some divine protector, huh? Maybe at night, you could get up and clean up this world? Sound good? No. No that's not you. No one's crazy Jack, especially not you! Premeditated. That's what the judge's gonna say. Crazy? You wish. Here's what you get Jack, here's your little hell! Time for you to wake up! Time to remember!" 


	7. The End...?

That's when I wake up. That's when I remember. That's when it comes back. That's when I realize that there is a fine line between a dream and a nightmare.  
  
The SWAT cop is right. He's always right. He comes every three nights. He comes to make me remember. He comes to open my eyes again. The dream isn't true. No matter how much I wish, it's never true. I'm not some crazy schizophrenic, I'm just fine. No avenging angel takes over my body to bring justice to this city. I'm a killer. I do it. I do it all the time. Now I remember.  
  
Tony. I remember how I went to his house, how I told him to buzz me in, how I made him get on his knees, how I made him beg, how he tried to make me remember that we're best friends. How his brains seeped out of his head. How, with his last dying breath, he asked, "Why?" How I laughed. God, I remember.  
  
Kim. Ever seen a little Japanese girl shoot herself with a shotgun? It's impossible. But her boyfriend holding it, suddenly makes a little more sense. She begged too, I guess they all do. I called her whore, made her get the whole barrel into her mouth, like the whore she is. Made her pretty little face explode. It's back.  
  
Those guys at the casino, I remember them too. Those poker players. Brothers. Tried to rob the place. Tried to be big men. They wanted someone with experience to help them. Maybe they shouldn't have picked me to go with them. I remember that little fair-skinned one. How he was so proud holding the briefcase of money. How his smiled turned right upside-down when he felt my barrel against his head. The look on his brother's face when he felt his sibling's brains splatter against him. The tears in his eyes when he joined his dear brother. Oh.  
  
The SWAT cop. I tied him to the chair in that casino. Used his own handcuffs to keep him down. Made him watch his brother's death about ten times before ending him too. He cried like a girl. Pussy.  
  
I can feel it again. I can feel it coming back. Feel that urge to kill. I WANT to. Then there's SPANK… It doesn't turn me into some vigilante… It gives me energy, gets me out of my funk. Makes my head clear. Gives me the strength to kill again. Let's me sleep when I'm done.  
  
Yet I know what I'm doing is wrong. I am no psycho. I am sane. I plotted all these deaths. Even when the urge rises, I'm still in control. But I just can't stop, I don't want to. So that brings me back. Makes me remember why I starve myself, why I sit in my little apartment watching my fan spin around. Why I can't even go to church, lest I murder some alter boy. I know I will kill again, I can't hold out forever. But I will try, I will sit, and I will try. I will sit and watch this fan, spinning and spinning, and I know that one day my mind, like the blade, will break and I will kill. 


End file.
